


The Toll

by lha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medicine, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 17:17:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14898719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lha/pseuds/lha
Summary: While in a helicopter on the way back from a visit to Euros, John Watson sees the toll that the events in The Final Problem are having on Mycroft first hand.





	The Toll

Throughout this excursion the atmosphere had been tense, palpably so, and the elder Holmes brother had been unnaturally quiet and withdrawn. John didn’t really blame him, he’d hardly been looking forward to it. Their last trip to Sherinford had been nothing short of disastrous and from what he could tell the fallout had been even worse, especially for Mycroft. Sherlock’s concern for his brother had been more than enough to suggest that things were serious, and that had been before the confrontation with their parents. He’d hardly looked well when he’d collected them to go out to the airfield that morning but now, now that they were on their way back;

“Mycroft?” John asked, watching the man sitting opposite him, “are you ok?”

“I… uh…” the other man said, reaching up and pulling at his collar, “I’m afraid I’m not feeling terribly well.” The doctor’s clinical eye had already spotted some concerning signs, the older man was positively grey and clammy and his answer had been less clipped.

“Any chest or arm pain?” he asked, unfastening his belt and actively not making eye contact with Sherlock or his parents.

“No pain.” This time, the word was actively slurred.

“Mycroft, can you look at me? I need you to smile.” While normally this would surely have been met with an arched eyebrow, and a witty comeback there was none this time and the lopsided lift of the other man’s lips confirmed his concern.

“John?” It was Sherlock’s quiet question as he moved out of his seat and knelt on the floor.

“We need to divert to the nearest major medical centre,” he said calmly and getting a tight nod in return as Sherlock pulled on a headset so that he could speak to the pilot.

“Mycroft,” he paused waiting until he was sure that he had the other man’s attention, “I think you’re having a stroke but we’re going to get you to hospital. Can you to lift your arms up in front of you?” Language and comprehension seemed intact as he did as requested, but his right arm, like the right hand side of his face wasn’t responding correctly.

“We’re ten minutes out from a London hospital with a helipad,” Sherlock said.

“Good. That’s good,” he replied keeping eye contact with Mycroft. “Faster than an ambulance ride in central London.” Mr & Mrs Holmes were chattering now, obviously concerned but he left them to Sherlock. “I know this must be frightening but I need you to try and stay calm. You’re doing really well, I’m just going to check your pulse,” he said. He couldn’t really do much else as he had brought next to nothing with him but just as he was thinking that, the co-pilot handed an impressive first aid kit back through to the passenger area.

“..’on… I… ca’...” The words were increasingly slurred and anxious.

“It’s ok,” he said, placing a hand on his knee. “Mycroft, I need you to breath slowly and steadily. This is not necessarily as bad as it seems and you’re going to get treatment well within the golden period.” For a man who was likened to ice by those who knew him, the pain and fear in his eyes was remarkable.

“..’ego..y” Mycroft was trying valiantly to say something but John couldn’t figure out what. Sherlock suddenly spoke up;

“I’ll call Lestrade. I’ll let Gregory know brother mine, just as soon as I’m able,” he said sincerely. There was always more left unsaid between the two of them, but John suddenly realised that this relationship between Mycroft and Greg was something he’d missed. Mycroft was crying now, tears pouring down his cheeks freely.

“Deep breaths,” John encouraged, certain that many of his normal platitudes would do no good, “that’s it, just try and keep them deep and even. We’re going to get you treated and Greg’s going to be on his way just as soon as he can.” He opened the first aid kit and pulled out the BP gauge.

When they landed, John reeled off the medical stats he’d been able to measure, times and signs he’d observed and what he knew of the patient’s history before looking to Sherlock to fill in the blanks.

“High blood pressure, recurring gastric ulcer and a history of clinical obesity. He’s also been shot, several times. I’ll have Anthea forward the full details.” His head was down, focussing on his phone.

“Sherlock,” John said, waiting until he looked up, “Phone Greg, yeah? Not text.” He got a tight nod in return. “I’m going to go with him. Someone will take you and your parents to a waiting room ok?” 

The next half an hour was a buzz of activity; scans and when it became clear that it was, as he’d predicted, an ischemic rather than an hemorrhagic stroke, blood thinners and secondary treatments were addressed. John managed to take a look at the medical history which had arrived with all due haste and in all its gory detail. It didn’t necessarily surprise him that Mycroft did not look after himself particularly well or that it was beginning to show, but while the location and even the exact dates of some of his physical injuries had been redacted there were many of them. Far more than he would have expected and they weren’t all as old as he might have predicted either. 

A ruckus in the waiting room brought him out of his study and he heard the strident voice of the detective ringing out from within.

“... let me in!” he was protesting loudly as John stepped through the door.

“Greg,” he said, holding his hands up as the other man turned on his heel to face him.

“They won’t let me in,” he said, deflating.

“I’ll see what I can do, but in the meantime,” he looked around at Mr & Mrs Holmes, Anthea who had presumably arrived with Greg and Sherlock who was hovering in the corner, coat wrapped tightly around him. “Mycroft’s had an ischemic stroke. The blood clot is in the left hemisphere and while it could be an awful lot worse, it’ll be a while before we know the outcome. He’s being given alteplase which will hopefully break the clot up without the need for surgical intervention. There is a danger of further strokes but he’ll be monitored closely and he’ll be given further medication to try and mitigate that.”

“Is he…” Greg asked, “if he can’t…”

“It’s too soon to tell what the lasting damage might be. He’s been given a sedative because his anxiety was raising his blood pressure, but the last time I saw him he was speaking more clearly again. I can’t make any promises but it certainly looks as though it could have been much worse.”

“Thank heavens,” Mr Holmes exclaimed, grasping his wife’s hands.

“Can I see him?” Greg asked more quietly.

“I’m sure we’ll manage something,” John said and held the door open for the other man. 

“I… I just… John… if he…” Now that they were alone Greg was obviously struggling to hold back his tears. “Oh shit John. He keeps saying that if his mind goes, that he’ll just end it. That he couldn’t bare it.” 

“Well he’s not quite at that stage yet,” John said, trying to stay light. “Really, it could have been much worse.” 

“He’s so bloody hard on himself. I swear, nothing’s ever good enough and then all this…” he trailed off. “He won’t speak about it but it’s taking a toll; tearing him up ins, gide.” 

“I’d suggest a therapist but…” Greg chucked. 

“...but he’d run circles around them. Maybe this’ll be enough to slow him down.”

“It’ll have to Greg, at least for a while. He’ll have to look after himself better.”

“Maybe this’ll be the scare he needs then,” the other man said, gesturing vaguely back at the rest of the Holmes clan. Greg ran a hand through his rumpled hair, looking through the window of the door they were stood in front of. 

“Seeing sense is not really either of their greatest skill, but I do think he’s had a proper fright. He’s suffered some loss of control down the right side, including his face which impacted his speech. There could still be some cognitive involvement but his comprehension has been good throughout.” 

“He’ll be loopy if they’ve sedated him. He bloody hates it.” 

“Yeah well, does them some good sometimes, to be brought back down to earth. In you go, I’ll let them know that you’re here.” 

Greg had always found a sleeping Mycroft to be one of his favourite sights, not that he caught it often and less often lately. If he hadn’t known any better he would have thought that there was nothing wrong with his partner at all. The bags under his eyes hadn’t shifted though, nor had his cheeks plumped up any.

“Oh Myc,” he sighed, perching on the chair and leaning forward to take his hand. Mycroft shifted, his head rolling towards him. He tried to smile but seemed to know it was feeble attempt. Greg’s heart lurched though when tears started falling from Mycroft’s eyes. “Oh love,” he sighed, reaching over to run a hand through soft ginger locks that had been loosed from their usual styling, “please don’t. You gave me such a fright but it’s so good to see you and John says that you’re doing really well. Shhh, love.” 

“Sorry.” It was quiet, not entirely precise but clearly discernable. 

“None of that,” Greg said, keeping up the gentle caress.

“Scared,” Mycroft managed with some effort. 

“No wonder, but I’m here and you’re getting the best treatment. John says you’ve improved already. You just need to be quiet and calm now and let us look after you. OK?” 

“ ‘thea?” he asked, his eyelids drooping. 

“She’s here, came to pick me up.” The next word that Mycroft attempted was undecipherable but he hoped it was because he was mostly asleep, the sedative having taken effect. 

Greg sat there, stroking Mycroft’s hair and holding his hand while nurses and doctors came and went. They took readings, adjusted drips, checked monitors and eventually roused the patient. The minor civil servant was quiet and withdrawn but managed to respond to all the commands he was given. There was some weakness still down the right side but he managed to lift his arm and leg, close his fist and while the fine motor control was not what could be considered normal, everyone seemed encouraged by the progress.

“Mycroft, can you tell me the date?” John asked. 

“Monday,” Mycroft said carefully after a minute, “May 12th 2016.” The words were there, though his lips were uneven; not forming the shapes evenly. It was unnerving to see but Greg tried desperately not to let it show. He offered an encouraging smile, when Mycroft glanced in his direction.

“Well, we’ll have to keep an eye on you and you’ll go for a follow up MRI tomorrow but I think that you’re past the worst for the moment,” the consultant said. “There is still a risk of further clots but with a physical and speech therapy, I think you’ll be almost as good as new.” He paused though, turning back, to face them. “You will need to take better care though, I can see from your records that your blood pressure and cholesterol have been a concern for some time and I can only guess what you’re work schedule is like but… if you want this to be a one off.. changes all round.” There was a tight nod from Mycroft where he was sitting up against the pillows.

“Don’t worry,” Greg said, squeezing his hand, “it’s going to be all steamed greens, walks in the park and early nights from now on.” Mycroft frowned lopsidedly. “Well, more so in any case. I’ve got an ally in his office.”

“You and Anthea make an alarming team.” It was still slow and considered but there was at least a hint of amusement plain to hear in his tone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I'd love hear your thoughts!  
> Lx  
> @LHA_again


End file.
